


here is the handful of shadow i brought back to you

by letterstothemoon



Category: TOMORROW X TOGETHER | TXT (Korea Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, as always: no beta, taehyun is a little bit bad at feelings but that's okay!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:35:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27855226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterstothemoon/pseuds/letterstothemoon
Summary: Taehyun doesn’t know why he does it. It’s just… Beomgyu’s lying there, pretty even in the shadows of the practice room at midnight; and he’slookingat Taehyun with those infuriating, inscrutable eyes. The silence—the stillness—is nigh unbearable. And it’s strange, how Taehyun stops thinking entirely, reduced to nothing more than the persistent ache in his throat, the ringing in his ears.He’s lurching forward to press his mouth to Beomgyu’s before he even realizes.
Relationships: Choi Beomgyu/Kang Taehyun
Comments: 30
Kudos: 313





	here is the handful of shadow i brought back to you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [permutative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/permutative/gifts).



> dedicated to shakti for a) getting me into txt within the span of like a day despite my dogged avoidance of them, and b) being so passionate about the value of certain taegyuisms that it convinced me to write an entire fic about them even though i'm still very ??????? about their dynamic <3
> 
> (also: title from margaret atwood's "mushrooms")

I

When it had been confirmed that Taehyun was actually a part of the debut group, he had been confronted immediately with the clashing of two distinct, contradictory emotions. Pride, obviously, and a thought like, _as expected, I made it_ , but then at the same time, in the strange little hindbrain composed of nothing more than flashes of sensation and wordless screaming, there was disbelief and something prickling at the corners of his eyes—a sort of relief that hit so fast and dizzying that his knees had gone temporarily weak.

In that moment, the neat little compartments into which Taehyun sorted his emotions had collapsed into incorrigible ruin, and he had to duck into a nearby storage closet to ugly cry for a solid five minutes. Of course, logically speaking, it wasn’t as though the decision was all that surprising—he’d consistently been up in the rankings for the last several months, and he’d _seen_ the appraising looks from upper management in the hallways, the subtle nods and quiet ‘good jobs’ every time they caught him after dance practice.

But Taehyun’s always been painfully human in a way that’s hard to shake, just a sixteen-year-old finding out that all his dreams were really coming true. He was going to be an idol, an honest-to-god singer-celebrity-entertainer. It wasn’t so peculiar, maybe, that he hadn’t really stopped to think about the debut team at all—he’d seen his name up on the board and all systems had shut down immediately.

He’d never been an easy crier, but as he crouched down in the darkness of the musty storage closet, he felt, strangely, as though he were shaking apart at the seams, a live wire of heaving gasps and lungs that burned. He buried his face in his palms and sobbed, not of sadness or even any real joy, just a simple outpouring of overwhelmed relief at every single life choice he’d ever made suddenly being validated.

It took several long minutes for his breathing to even out, for the snot to stop running. Even without actively crying, his eyes hurt, and his mouth felt gross and unduly slick with mucus. It was embarrassing to have lost the plot so badly—his only consolation was that he’d had the good sense to do it alone, in a vaguely grimy closet, instead of in front of the CEO, like Yeonjun had.

Taehyun knew that he should really leave, that he shouldn’t be sitting on his ass and likely covering his favorite pair of jeans with an unfortunate amount of dust, but the reality of it all was that if he had tried to stand, his legs would have probably failed him. It was as though months’ worth of adrenaline had dropped off into something loose-limbed and trembling, and even as he brought his hands up to wipe roughly at his running nose, they were shaking.

He tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, swearing quietly under his breath. He didn’t know what to do—was he supposed to call his mom, celebrate with a big fancy meal? He should probably at least talk to the rest of the confirmed members. He was sure that Kai (or, well, it was _Hueningkai_ now, wasn’t it?) could show him the most appropriate way to react. Ebulliently, most likely. And with a lot of screaming.

At the moment, though, all Taehyun really wanted to do was to sit in that dark, cramped closet for all of eternity, existing in the quiet rattle of his breathing, the vague vibrations of the floor beneath him from a far-off practice room. He curled his hands into fists, feeling the unsteady beat of his pulse in his fingertips. He felt, suddenly—in a moment of bizarre clarity—astoundingly insignificant. A small, scared thing. He inhaled. Held it in. _One, two_. Exhaled. 

He straightened and opened his eyes. The room was almost entirely dark, lit only by the crack of the door left ajar. Taehyun stared, unblinking, at that thin yellow light, and felt as his body settled, as the shaking subsided. He didn’t want to leave the closet, thought that if he did, then he would have to become Taehyun-the-debutant with a sort of contrived professionalism he still hadn’t fully grasped.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and when he took it out, its glow blinded him temporarily.

It was a simple: _where r u???_ from Kai, followed by a sticker of a confused-looking cartoon bunny.

Taehyun didn’t reply, instead pocketing the phone again and burying his face in his knees to breathe. The air was thick and stale and smelled of an unfortunate combination of must and bleach. It was then that the door creaked open, the sudden spillage of fluorescent light from the hallway making his eyes smart and his headache even fiercer. Taehyun squinted at the intruder, a silhouette outlined in white.

There was a long, drawn out pause, before: “Dude,” said Choi Beomgyu, emphatically.

“Dude,” Taehyun echoed, and immediately wanted to shrivel up into a cringing ball and die.

His eyes adjusted, and saw Beomgyu’s poorly concealed curiosity, the glint of his white teeth. His hair, dark brown, was being held back by a cute little cloth headband, like he was getting ready to wash his face and go to bed, instead of someone who was supposed to be on the clock at work. Some part of Taehyun was very aware that Beomgyu had also been chosen as part of the final lineup, but he also wasn’t sure what to feel about it. He and Beomgyu got along well, because Taehyun got along well with every trainee, but the truth was that the two of them had never been all that close, even though they saw each other every day.

Beomgyu was an extrovert who held people at arm’s length, who somehow managed to ramble and overshare in a deliberate way that still meant that Taehyun had no idea what to think of him. Still, Taehyun was relieved that it had been Beomgyu who found him and not Kai or even Soobin.

“Shove over,” said Beomgyu rather easily, making a shooing motion with his hand before closing the door behind him so that they were once again bathed in darkness. He didn’t ask if Taehyun was okay, didn’t even turn to examine his flushed face and dripping nose. He sat next to Taehyun wordlessly, humming something familiar under his breath. They were pressed together, shoulder-to-hip-to-ankle, and it was quiet.

“We made it,” said Taehyun, eventually, a breathy thing.

“Yeah,” Beomgyu murmured. “We did.”

If Taehyun were to pinpoint any one singular instance, any explicit detail in which the first stone had been set rolling… maybe it was that moment then, together in the shadows—shoulder-to-hip-to-ankle with Choi Beomgyu and his stupid cloth headband—that’s when it starts.

II

It’s three a.m. and Taehyun can’t fall asleep.

He’s never been much of an insomniac, the type of person who passes out the moment his head hits the pillow usually, except now he’s lying on his back staring at the ceiling and trying not to pay attention to the ticking of his watch on his right wrist. It’s not that he feels particularly wired, either—there’s nothing that should be keeping him up, really, it’s just that for some reason he can’t sleep.

Eventually, when Taehyun’s counted his two-hundredth and fifty-sixth sheep, he sighs and sits up.

The hardwood floors are cold beneath his bare feet, and the dorm is silent. He briefly considers grabbing a few tangerines to snack on, but he’s had so many tangerines in the past few days he’s honestly a little sick of them. He bites back a yawn, passing a hand over his face, through his hair (which is a little bleach-fried and crispy, if he’s being totally honest).

He finds that he’s not the only one awake, a hunched-over shape at the foot of the living room couch, a guitar lying to the side.

Beomgyu’s face is awash with the pale blue glow of his phone, and he’s staring, unblinking, at what looks like his fancam from their debut stage. He’s curled up into a ball, kind of, knees drawn to his chest and his left thumbnail pressed to his bottom lip in concentration.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Taehyun asks, a little blandly, as he wanders over to sit next to him. Beomgyu glances at him, before turning back to the phone.

“Nah,” he says, and his voice comes out sandpaper rough. “You?”

“Evidently not.”

“Obviously,” Beomgyu snorts, and then goes back to ignoring Taehyun. Beomgyu’s different at night—their resident insomniac—quiet and oddly thoughtful, and more prone to a brusque sort of dismissal that smarts in daylight but is somehow alright in the gloom. Taehyun’s content to sit next to him, not watching the fancam but Beomgyu, the cut of his profile, his straight nose. His long lashes, the light reflected in his eyes.

“You’re staring,” Beomgyu says, without even once looking at Taehyun. “Maybe you should take a picture instead, it’ll last longer.”

“You’re not slick,” Taehyun retorts, but he’s smiling, because unfortunately Beomgyu being terribly unfunny absolutely works on him.

“I disagree,” Beomgyu says, and then clicks on the next video, which is a fancam of Soobin. Soobin in that pleated half-skirt for their _Can’t You See Me_ stage, a ridiculous style that they’d teased him for endlessly, but Taehyun secretly thinks that it really, really suited him.

“Your narcissism is incredible,” Taehyun says, deadpan, but he can feel his eyes squinting with amusement.

“Everything about me is incredible,” Beomgyu drawls, and tilts his head back to rest on the seat of the couch, finally turning to meet Taehyun’s expectant stare. His eyes are half-lidded, all long lashes and dark circles, and he’s smiling. He looks tired but pleased. With himself or Taehyun, it’s not clear at all.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Taehyun scoffs, because he’s obligated to at least try to check Beomgyu’s ego. “Why can’t you sleep?”

Beomgyu gestures vaguely at the abandoned guitar, slim fingers passing over the strings with a sort of gentleness that aches to look at. “Had a melody stuck in my head and wanted to figure it out. Got bored halfway through.” He quirks an eyebrow at Taehyun; an unspoken _you?_

“Dunno,” Taehyun shrugs, picking at a stray thread at the hem of his shorts. “Just… couldn’t sleep.”

Taehyun trails off into silence.

It doesn’t seem as though Beomgyu’s all that willing to continue the conversation, turning back to his phone, and clicking on the next video, which is a fancam of Taehyun in _Puma_. It’s rare that Taehyun feels awkward around any of the members, but somehow, here, sitting by Beomgyu’s side in the dark, the words stick in his throat, heavy and uncomfortable on his tongue.

He looks at Beomgyu, at his limp hair and dark eyebrows, at the unadorned piercing of his right ear. Something swells in the pit of his stomach, a horrible swooping feeling, a dark, churning mass of something nameless and wholly unfamiliar. Taehyun looks away.

“I’m going to bed, I think,” he says, and swallows, his blunt nails pressing crescent marks into the fleshy parts of his palms. “Good night, hyung.”

“Okay,” says Beomgyu, and waves a careless hand in his direction. “Good night.”

Taehyun goes back to his and Kai’s room and doesn’t sleep at all.

III

“Let me copy your homework,” Beomgyu whines, and then pouts at Taehyun like he’s God’s obnoxious gift to humanity. They’re being driven to school from the company, and Kai is already totally passed out in the passenger seat, drool crusting at the corners of his lips.

“No,” Taehyun buries his face in his scarf and closes his eyes resolutely. It’s six and the morning and he very much does not want to think about spending the next eight or so hours hunched over a desk. They’ve already racked up far too many absences—him, Kai, and Beomgyu—for him to skip any more days in good conscience. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Taehyun, I’m literally going to fail out of school!”

“Then fail,” Taehyun mumbles.

“Ugh,” Beomgyu complains, and then reaches out to pull weakly at Taehyun’s sleeve. “Where’s the respect? I’m your hyung, you should treat me well! You seriously can’t let me just fail like this.”

“I can and I will. Should have thought of that before not doing your own homework, _hyung,_ ” Taehyun drawls. He absolutely doesn’t mention that his own homework is also nowhere near finished. He’s a working man—it’s the least of his concerns to be figuring out what interpretation of a poem is most heart-wrenching.

Beomgyu huffs and slumps aggressively back into his own seat, and Taehyun thinks he can hear their driver laughing at them.

It’s not like Beomgyu’s a bad student—okay, no, that’s a lie, he definitely kind of is. They’re _all_ pretty mediocre students, really, just by virtue of prioritizing their careers over the day-to-day monotony of something like chemistry homework. Although, it’s not like Beomgyu’s irredeemable or anything like that—his concentration is in practical arts anyways, so outside of the gen ed requirements he _does_ actually put in a fair amount of effort. Taehyun’s probably just the only one who still tries in the rest of his subjects though, so he’s always the go-to for homework help even though he’s only got a tenuous grasp of the material at best.

“After school,” Beomgyu says, turning to Taehyun after they’ve been dropped off at the front entrance.

“What?”

“After school,” Beomgyu continues, like Taehyun hadn’t spoken at all, “let’s go to the studio.”

Taehyun squints at him. “We’re off work today, though.”

“I want your opinion on a song,” Beomgyu says, already turning to head inside, to his classroom a floor above Taehyun’s.

“Why me?” Taehyun calls, but Beomgyu only grins, shooting him an enthusiastic thumbs up.

At that, Taehyun turns to look helplessly at Kai, who shrugs at him.

“Maybe he’s looking to get judged,” Kai suggests. “Like, with that whole soul-crushing look you give us, sometimes.”

“What look?” Taehyun demands.

“Oh, you know,” Kai says, “the _look_ ,” and then leaves Taehyun standing outside the entrance alone, feeling distinctly off-kilter with an urge to pull his hair out of his head.

Unfortunately, Taehyun is what one might call a chronic overthinker—it’s an occupational hazard, really—and so he spends the entirety of first _and_ second period thinking about Beomgyu’s cryptic invitation. It’s not that he doesn’t know Beomgyu’s been composing a lot recently, it’s just that usually he doesn’t show any of it to Taehyun at all—besides, Beomgyu’s never really cared all that much about Taehyun’s opinion outside of the habitual monitoring of their performances.

“What are you thinking about?” Asks the boy who sits next to him in class and whose name Taehyun has embarrassingly forgotten.

“Work,” he says, a lie.

“Oh,” the boy says, and twists his fingers together. “That’s pretty cool, huh, that you’ve already debuted and you’re still coming to school.”

“Sure.”

It’s not very cool, actually, but Taehyun promised his mom that he would graduate at the very least, when she’d taken his hands in her own and begged him to at least get a high school diploma. Just in case, she had said, and it had stung, that implied lack of faith, except Taehyun knew that she was right.

He thinks, wordlessly, all the way through lunch and third and fourth and fifth period, and by the time school lets out Beomgyu is waiting outside Taehyun’s classroom and chatting with two starstruck girls. He looks handsome and friendly like he always does, careless and casual in the way he leans against the wall, talking with his hands.

“Where’s Kai?” Taehyun asks, first thing, and Beomgyu raises his eyebrows at him, pushing off of the wall and poking Taehyun’s cheek, where his dimple is.

“Well, hello to you too, asshole,” he says archly, before breaking into a self-satisfied grin. “His mom picked him up; he’s got a family dinner.”

“Alright,” Taehyun says, and avoids the wide-eyed look of the two girls standing beside Beomgyu. “Are we going now?”

Beomgyu nods. “Let’s take the bus,” he says, and then rummages through his backpack to hand Taehyun a baseball cap. “Disguise,” he offers, and then smiles squinty-eyed when Taehyun pulls it down low over his head.

It’s been a long time since he and Beomgyu rode the bus together—since their debut, really; their company prefers that they call the company car for safety reasons, but sometimes the little rebellions are the ones that really matter. On the bus Taehyun pulls his facemask up past his nose until the edges of it rests just beneath the tender skin of his eyes. Beomgyu does the same, and he turns pleased, smiling eyes to Taehyun as he rearranges the collar of his school uniform.

They’re students here, anonymous.

Beomgyu chatters aimlessly as he plays some sort of game on his phone, and Taehyun listens as carefully as he can, murmuring responses and leaning his head against Beomgyu’s shoulder to watch him play. Beomgyu is solid and skinny next to him, the hard jut of his shoulder softened only by the thick material of his jacket and uniform. Beomgyu’s got pretty hands, long and thin with delicate fingers, and Taehyun watches them and thinks about their iron-cage grip around his lungs.

“We’re almost there,” Taehyun mumbles, drowsy and sleep-warm, and Beomgyu turns to look outside the window.

“Oh, you’re right.” He slides his phone back into his pocket and pushes Taehyun’s head off his shoulder so that he can fish for the company keycard in his backpack.

The sun’s already setting, casting a red-orange glow over the street and Beomgyu, who looks as though he’s been carved in gold. Taehyun looks at him and keeps that thought to himself, because Beomgyu does not need to be told that he looks unreal any more than he needs to be told that he’s funny.

“Do you really have a song to show me?” Taehyun asks, when they’re walking through the halls together and greeting staff.

“Duh,” Beomgyu says, and glances at him from out the corner of his eye. “Why would I lie about that?”

“You don’t usually show me songs you write.”

“Um, I do, what on earth are you talking about?”

“Only after they’ve been approved by management for production.”

“What’s your _point_?”

“Nothing, I guess.” Taehyun falls silent, sullenly glaring at his feet. He doesn’t know why his ears are suddenly burning, why he feels like a scolded child.

When they listen to the song together, Taehyun sitting and Beomgyu hovering behind him anxiously, Taehyun doesn’t take it in at all.

IV

Sweat-slick and panting, Taehyun collapses onto his back to stare at the fluorescent lights of the practice room ceiling. Sweat drips down his temples, onto the floor, into his eyes. It burns. He’s exhausted, five hours of non-stop dance practice and they’re all half-dead. Soobin looks as though he’s about to hurl, and Yeonjun and Kai have taken to sitting in front of the rotating fan to try and cool down. Beomgyu is sitting against the mirror, cheek pressed to the glass.

“We’re,” Soobin says, and takes a moment to compose himself, hands on his knees. He’s faintly green. “We’re done for today.”

“Thank _god_ ,” Kai says, and then uses Yeonjun as an armrest to stagger to his feet, to which Yeonjun lets out an affronted squawk. “Let’s go back to the dorms.”

“I’m going to stay, I think,” Beomgyu says, and then cracks a shaky smile when everyone turns to look at him. “I keep messing up the part after the bridge, I think I just need to go over it a few times.”

And then Taehyun goes and opens his big dumb mouth to say: “I’ll stay, too,” like the absolute idiot that he is.

“Okay, whatever,” Soobin says, and bites back a yawn, and uses a foot to gently nudge Taehyun’s side. “Don’t stay too late.”

“We won’t,” Taehyun promises, touching a finger to the exposed jut of Soobin’s ankle, and then pointedly avoids Beomgyu’s sharp stare.

And then it’s quiet, just him and Beomgyu, and Taehyun can’t even look at him, making no move to move from his sprawl on the floor.

“Are you really going to keep practicing?” Taehyun asks, eyes firmly fixed to the hardwood floors. There’s a scuff right by his nose.

“Obviously,” Beomgyu snorts. “Why else would I have stayed back?” There’s a thread of irritation there, an unsaid _so why the hell are you here?_ caught between them like a lit fuse just waiting to blow. But Taehyun, despite his quick wit, his acerbic sense of humor, has always been a pacifist, and a coward.

“Right,” he whispers, to the scuff on the floor.

He lies there, unmoving, even as Beomgyu turns the music back on, goes over that one part after the bridge again and again and again. Taehyun lies and listens to the way Beomgyu’s breath runs ragged, audible even over the thump and swell of the melody and bass.

“Why are you here, Taehyun?” Beomgyu says, after what seems to be about thirty minutes of increasingly frustrating practice.

Taehyun turns, then, to look at Beomgyu, who’s hunched over with his hands on his knees. He can see up his nose from where he’s lying, can see the lines of sweat trailing down his throat, the damp cling of his shirt to his chest. Beomgyu is flushed and frowning, hair sticking to his temples in wet tendrils.

“Dunno,” Taehyun lies.

Beomgyu stares at Taehyun, unblinking for several breathless moments, before abruptly turning on his heel to turn the music off. The quiet is unsettling, and Taehyun turns back to face the ceiling, squinting directly at a light and wondering if he stares long enough maybe he’ll go blind. “Beomgyu-hyung,” he says, to the ceiling. “Can you turn the lights off?”

“Sure.”

Even as the room is cloaked in darkness, Taehyun still thinks he sees the echoes of that light, a burn imprinted behind his closed eyelids. “Hyung,” he says, and his voice is whisper-soft, papery-thin. “Come here.” He pats the floor beside him, eyes firmly shut. He hears the sound of Beomgyu walking, the rustle of his clothes as he stretches out beside Taehyun. He’s too far to touch, but Taehyun imagines that he can feel the warmth radiating from him.

“Why?” Beomgyu sounds amused, and his voice is so close. “Are you planning on sleeping here?”

“No,” Taehyun says, and then rolls over onto his side— _sunflower turning its wanting face to the sun_ —to look at Beomgyu. “Just… this is nice,” he says lamely, after an embarrassingly long pause.

Beomgyu’s not looking at him, his own eyes closed, mouth curved into something that’s almost a smile. It hurts to look at him, and Taehyun doesn’t know why. He feels flayed open, all the tender, hidden parts of him on display in the worst possible way. Each breath rattles in his papier-mâché lungs; empty, pointless endeavors that ache. He’s lightheaded, exposed. He’s terrified that Beomgyu is going to open his eyes to look at him and see right through him, see all the bleeding, pulsing parts of him that beat a stuttered, covetous rhythm.

“You’ve been working really hard,” Taehyun murmurs, and it feels wrong to break the silence between them, but all of a sudden, he’s filled with a strange desperation to let Beomgyu know that he’s been watching, been paying _so much_ attention. That it doesn’t matter if no one else noticed, because Taehyun did, and—

“I guess,” Beomgyu says consideringly, and then turns to face Taehyun as well, opening those glittering eyes of his. His body curves towards Taehyun, and he looks painfully young like this, expression open and unafraid.

It’s cold against the floors, the silence between them an insurmountable wall. Taehyun’s flimsy, rattling lungs come to a standstill, and he feels himself crack apart even further, his heart and pancreas and guts pouring out of him a raw, agonizing mess.

Taehyun doesn’t know why he does it. It’s just… Beomgyu’s lying there, pretty even in the shadows of the practice room at midnight; and he’s _looking_ at Taehyun with those infuriating, inscrutable eyes. The silence—the stillness—is nigh unbearable. And it’s strange, how Taehyun stops thinking entirely, reduced to nothing more than the persistent ache in his throat, the ringing in his ears.

He’s lurching forward to press his mouth to Beomgyu’s before he even realizes.

Beomgyu’s utterly still beneath him, an unresponsive statue with soft chapped lips and fingers splayed against the hardwood floors. It’s over before it really starts, a split-second moment of adrenaline and terror and Taehyun is jerking backwards, wide-eyed and winded, stomach lurching.

His throat aches, pulses with something sharp and sour like fear, like regret.

“I,” he gasps, and feels as though he’s falling to pieces right before Beomgyu’s stunned stare.

“What—”

“Forget about it,” Taehyun cuts him off, panicky and on the edge of shrill. All the air is rapidly leaving the room, and even though Taehyun feels smaller than ever, there’s also a horrible sensation akin to claustrophobia— _walls closing in, lungs collapsing_ —that grips him by the throat, makes his hands shake as he scrambles to his feet. “Seriously, hyung, forget about it,” he repeats, and feels, suddenly, like crying, which is beyond humiliating.

“Taehyun-ah,” Beomgyu says, helplessly, even as Taehyun grabs his bag and pushes past the door, outside, into the world of fluorescent lights, far, far away from Choi Beomgyu.

V

Taehyun, when he puts his mind to it, is very, very good at avoiding uncomfortable situations. He is also very well-versed in using Soobin and Kai as meat shields, and also acting as though everything is Totally Fine even when things are decidedly Not.

It doesn’t help that every time Beomgyu even tries to make eye contact with Taehyun, he shuts down, physically incapable of meeting the weight of his stare. Taehyun considers himself lucky enough that Beomgyu hadn’t blown up at him, hadn’t kicked him in the balls or something terrible like that, but then again, it’s Choi Beomgyu, who’s always been the more easygoing of the two of them.

It’s embarrassing, and something Taehyun absolutely cannot speak of to anyone. Just thinking about the kiss makes him want to die. Death by cringe, that’ll be something.

Beomgyu keeps staring at him, and frowning, except every time he does Taehyun’s sure to duck his head to avoid looking at him at all. Besides, even though Beomgyu’s loud, and sometimes annoying, he’s never been the pushy type—never one to chase after someone who clearly doesn’t want to be chased.

They go five full days without a proper conversation—and, surprisingly, despite the fact that they work together and see each other every day, it’s not all that obvious a hindrance. Kai, Soobin, and Yeonjun are good buffers, and getting into the swing of things before a comeback is always busy enough that collaboration, while necessary, doesn’t require actual camaraderie.

Maybe this is just the way their relationship is going to be—destined to be stilted, restricted to an uncomfortable professionalism that makes Taehyun’s skin crawl. He can’t even really blame anyone besides himself, his lack of foresight, his sudden, uncharacteristic impulsivity.

The chilly atmosphere lasts until Saturday—if that’s a good or bad thing, Taehyun can’t tell—because Beomgyu, no matter how tolerant he may be, has definitely never been on board with being ignored.

Beomgyu corners him when Taehyun is eating tangerines over the sink, hunched over so as not to get the juice everywhere, although it isn’t a very successful attempt. His fingers and wrists are sticky and slick.

“Taehyun-ah.”

Taehyun startles violently, fists clenching reflexively. Juice squirts all over his shirt, and some nearly gets into his eye. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, and then drops the sad, pulpy carcass of the tangerine into the sink in defeat. He hears the muffled sound of laughter—Beomgyu—and lifts his head up to glare dourly.

“Taehyun-ah,” Beomgyu says again, and then comes forward to turn the tap on, fingers curling around his wrists to hold their hands under the stream. His hands are cool to the touch, steady, and Taehyun is petrified into stillness.

“What?” He considers it a small victory that his voice even comes out stable.

“You can’t ignore me forever.”

“I’m not ignoring you,” Taehyun says, and lets Beomgyu pull his arm further into the stream, water running over his forearms, “I’m talking to you right now, see?”

Taehyun can _feel_ Beomgyu rolling his eyes.

“Right,” Beomgyu says, deceptively light, and his grip tightens almost imperceptibly around Taehyun’s wrist. “I guess I just imagined the past week, then,” his fingers are a vice, and Taehyun winces, unable to pull away. If he really tried, he could probably get out of Beomgyu’s grasp—it’s not like Beomgyu’s the strongest guy alive, really—but there’s a terrible, curious part of him that wants to see where Beomgyu’s going with this.

His hands are objectively clean now, but Beomgyu holds them there, still, underneath the running water. He’s staring contemplatively at their hands, brushing his thumb over the thin skin of Taehyun’s wrist, at his pulse. Taehyun hopes he can’t feel his heartrate skyrocket, the way he stops breathing entirely.

“We’re wasting water,” Taehyun says weakly. “We’ll get scolded if our water bill is too high this month.”

Beomgyu turns to look at him at that, mouth twisted into an expression of amused disbelief. “ _That’s_ what you’re thinking about?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

Beomgyu inhales sharply through his nose, then exhales, a short little unamused puff. “You’re the worst, actually.”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Say ‘uh yeah’ one more time and I’ll break your pinky.”

Taehyun opens his mouth, then thinks better of it. Beomgyu snickers and turns the tap off.

“You know I’m not mad at you, right?” Beomgyu’s voice drops into something quieter, more solemn. His fingers are brands around Taehyun’s wrists. “Or whatever it is that you’re afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Taehyun lies, and then twists his arms to extricate himself from Beomgyu’s grasp. “Besides, I told you to forget about it.”

“Right, because that’s so easy.”

“It should be,” Taehyun mumbles, and he’s never had so much trouble meeting someone’s eyes in his life. “Would it help if I told you that it didn’t mean anything?”

“No, because you lying to me doesn’t make me feel better.”

Right.

Taehyun doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to look Beomgyu in the eye and tell him to move on. In the same way that he’d never intended on kissing Beomgyu, never intended on singlehandedly ruining whatever might remain of their friendship… Taehyun’s a good pretender but he’s never been good at lying to himself.

He thinks about returning to the time when they’d first met, when Beomgyu had been pretty but gawky and awkward, the way he’d smiled and said _I like your teeth_ , in that terribly thick Daegu accent of his, and Taehyun hadn’t felt much of anything for him, or about him. He thinks about the time before he knew about the way Beomgyu laughs and jumps up and down in place whenever he’s excited, the way Beomgyu is _loud_ and _annoying_ and is still somehow the most endearing person Taehyun’s ever met. He thinks about the time he didn’t know that Beomgyu can hold entire conversations in his sleep, that he’s secretly a hopeless romantic, that he cries (but swears he doesn’t) every time he watches the Lion King.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Taehyun says helplessly, feeling locked in and uncomfortable with the small of his back against the counter, Beomgyu two feet away. Beomgyu’s standing in front of him, their three-centimeter height difference negligible in the way that Beomgyu keeps trying to meet his eyes. “I can’t give a reason. I’m sorry.”

“That’s a lie,” Beomgyu draws ever closer, and Taehyun’s already backed into a corner, no place to run, no place to hide. He feels flayed open. “You know it’s a lie.”

“What do you mean, it’s a lie? I’m not lying about being sorry,” Taehyun’s heart resides in his throat, and he’s cold with fear, sick with it.

“I know you’re not lying about being sorry,” Beomgyu’s close enough that Taehyun can almost count his eyelashes, clearly see the tired rings around his eyes. “But there’s definitely a reason you did it. You know there is.”

“Fine,” Taehyun says, and arches back to create just that extra bit of distance. “Fine. There _is_ a reason. I just don’t want to talk about it. If you hate me, want to hit me, whatever. Do it. Whatever _this_ is, though… can you just give me some space?”

“I’m not going to hit you, stupid. And I clearly don’t hate you, don’t get things twisted.” Beomgyu’s so calm, and it’s this levelheaded version of him that Taehyun doesn’t recognize, doesn’t understand. “And no, I don’t think I _will_ give you space, since the last time I tried that you ignored me for a week.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” Taehyun protests weakly, “… and it was only five days.”

“God, Taehyun, can we _not_ do this again,” Beomgyu groans, and then drops his head to rest his forehead against Taehyun’s shoulder. Taehyun’s heart stutters and stalls in his chest, a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the counter behind him. _Beomgyu’s got a big head_ , he thinks, half delirious. _It’s fucking heavy_.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Taehyun admits, and it’s embarrassing, the way his throat’s closing up, the way he’s never been more scared in his life. “I’m sorry, hyung.”

Beomgyu draws back to at him, and Taehyun wonders if he’s imagining the pity in his eyes.

“There’s nothing to fix,” Beomgyu says. “Get that through your thick skull.”

“Between the two of us I don’t think it’s me with the thick skull,” Taehyun mutters, unable to help the dig, to which Beomgyu scoffs and mercilessly pinches his side.

“You’re impossible,” Beomgyu says, but he’s smiling now, and Taehyun doesn’t understand _why_. Why is he smiling? Why is he still standing here, inches away from Taehyun? Why?

He reaches out to grasp Beomgyu’s sleeves, twisting his fingers through the fabric with a desperation that’s never been characteristic of him. “If you don’t back away right now,” he says, and the barely there tremor of his voice is humiliating, a look into the softest, weakest parts of him, “I’ll misunderstand.”

“Misunderstand what?” Beomgyu doesn’t move at all, and his own voice is thick with something akin to amusement. “Can’t you tell, Kang Taehyun?” _It’s killing Taehyun, being so close to him_ , “I’m here, giving you explicit permission.”

“Permission for what?” Taehyun is pretty sure he hasn’t blinked in the past two minutes.

“To misunderstand, I guess,” Beomgyu’s smile is easy, lopsided and heart-wrenching. “I’m saying that I didn’t mind the kiss.” At that, he pulls away abruptly, and with the increased distance Taehyun feels his heart kickstart behind his ribs, all the strength leaving his legs. He feels hollowed out. Scraped raw.

“Um,” Taehyun says, except Beomgyu’s already leaving the room. “ _What?”_

“I said what I said,” Beomgyu calls, singsong, and lifts a hand almost dismissively as he leaves.

“ _Choi Beomgyu get back here—_ you’re not as cool as you think you are!”

~

After leaving like he didn’t just _change everything about Taehyun’s worldview_ , Beomgyu starts avoiding Taehyun. Not in the half-petrified way that Taehyun had done, but in an almost teasing way, dancing just out of Taehyun’s reach each time they’re in the same room together—a one-sided push-and-pull that’s driving Taehyun _nuts_.

It comes to a head two days later, because Taehyun is even less patient than Beomgyu, and he manages to catch Soobin on his way into his and Beomgyu’s shared room.

“Hyung,” he says, twisting his fingers into the back of Soobin’s shirt and nearly choking him. “Can you do me a favor?” He doesn’t give Soobin time to answer, “I need you to stay out of your room for a bit.”

Soobin sounds a little concerned when he asks: “are you going to hurt Beomgyu?” before tapping the back of Taehyun’s hand to get him to let go.

“Not permanently,” Taehyun promises.

Soobin squints at Taehyun. “Fine. But I’ll be listening for any cries for help.”

“You’re the best,” Taehyun deadpans, and then steps to the side so Soobin can walk past.

When he walks into the room, the first thing he does is to lock the door behind him. The lights are off, the room lit only by the glow of Soobin’s open laptop and star-shaped nightlight. Beomgyu’s lying down on the floor, even though his bed is literally _right there_ , dressed in an old grey hoodie and worn basketball shorts. All Taehyun can see are his knobby knees, his bony ankles.

“Prepare to die,” Taehyun drones, and then watches as Beomgyu props himself up on a wrist, grinning like he hasn’t made Taehyun’s life miserable for the past two days.

“I’ve been waiting,” Beomgyu drawls, and then flutters his eyelashes. Taehyun briefly and explicitly imagines all the possible ways that he can throttle him.

“Waiting? For me to choke you out?”

“Hey, now,” Beomgyu says, and then sits upright, and that’s definitely a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “I don’t do that until the fifth date at the very least.”

 _Date_ , Taehyun mouths the word, feeling half-delirious and half-hysterical. “You’re killing me,” Taehyun finally manages. “Is that what you want? For me to die?”

“Usually you’re not so dramatic.”

“You can’t say that you _didn’t mind the kiss_ ,” Taehyun hisses this part, “and then just expect me to, what, be _okay_ with it?”

“Were you expecting a fistfight? Tell me the truth, Taehyun-ah.” Beomgyu’s laughing at him, the asshole. “I mean, sure, you certainly… surprised me, with that kiss.” Beomgyu reaches forward and loops his fingers around Taehyun’s wrist, pulling gently. Taehyun is weak, and maybe a little bit in love, and so he lets Beomgyu drag him to the floor.

“Please don’t speak to me ever again,” Taehyun groans, and buries his face into his hands. “I still think this is a nightmare that I’m going to wake up from.”

“So dramatic,” Beomgyu teases, and rubs the tender underside of Taehyun’s wrist, feeling for his racing pulse. “But I meant it when I said I didn’t mind it.”

“What does that mean,” Taehyun despairs. “Like, it didn’t _disgust_ you? Because that’s a low bar if any—”

“Like…” Beomgyu interrupts, voice dropping into something quieter, private. A secret pressed between his thumb and Taehyun’s heart. “Like I wouldn’t mind if you did it again.”

Taehyun goes utterly still, static ringing in his ears, cotton fluff filling his mouth. “What?” He wheezes, because that can’t be right, Beomgyu _wouldn’t_ …

Beomgyu touches a hand to Taehyun’s chin, knuckles only the barest pressure as he turns Taehyun to face him. He looks determined, and even though his words earlier had been confident, the tips of his ears are red, and his lower lip is bitten raw. He’s terrified, Taehyun realizes. Every bit as frightened as Taehyun, except here he is, sitting next to him in his worn grey hoodie and old gym shorts, determined and warm and very real.

“Can I?” He whispers, eyes big and earnest, and the hand on Taehyun’s jaw trembles. “Please?”

Wordlessly, heart in his throat, Taehyun nods. _Yes_ , he thinks, waiting, wanting, and squeezes his eyes closed, _please_.

The press of Beomgyu’s mouth is gentle, hesitant, and fleeting. It’s a close-mouthed kiss, a very middle-school first kiss experience where neither of them really has any idea about what to do. Even still, Taehyun feels himself sinking into it all, leaning into Beomgyu, hand rising to cover Beomgyu’s on his own face. He feels Beomgyu inhale sharply, a short, anxious thing, before he pulls back to meet Taehyun’s expectant stare.

“Uh,” Beomgyu says, and then giggles. The sound of it is shrill, clearly pitchy with nerves. He’s flushed, all the way from his ears down to his collarbones. Taehyun is hopelessly endeared. “So, yeah,” Beomgyu says, pink and pleased, teeth buried into the full swell of his lower lip. “I didn’t mind it.”

Taehyun, finally, _finally_ , feels himself settling in his skin, the thread of anxiety that had been pulling at his chest for the past week dissipating into nonexistence. Beomgyu’s voice: _I didn’t mind it_. Beomgyu’s hand on his cheek, his breath against his lips.

“Again?” Taehyun hedges, hopeful, wide-eyed as he waits for a reaction.

Beomgyu meets his stare head-on, and nods, once. “Okay,” he whispers, and leans in.

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out on [twt](https://twitter.com/epistolarymoon) and [cc](https://curiouscat.me/letterstothemoon)!


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